


you've gotten into my bloodstream

by scionofthelongproject



Series: what even counts as evil nowadays? [1]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blood Play, Chaotic au, F/M, Knife Play, Slade is a tired standby hero who detests getting nudes during Justice League briefings, Zatanna is a magical mercenary who only looks out for herself and her own, it's hard to say 'I love you' when the last person you said it to shot your eye out, secrecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 11:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scionofthelongproject/pseuds/scionofthelongproject
Summary: In the end, this was either going to end with Slade tossing her behind bars or sleeping with her, and with his track record, Bruce Wayne should've known better than think it'd be the first one.





	you've gotten into my bloodstream

**Author's Note:**

> All yall, sobbing: Please, for the love of God, stop making AUs  
> Me, polishing up a fourth: I can't hear you over the sound of suffering

He still doesn't understand why she's such a worry. 

As he stares at the smartphone with the report from Wayne - _Trickmistress Activity and Victims_ \- he scrunches his nose up. Bruce Wayne doesn't understand the meaning of the word 'victim', most notably due to the way he seems to leave victims of his own behind. Maybe not dead, but at the very least, their life changed by some kind of horrendous injury. It's not as if Trickmistress kills with abandon; the people who she goes after are ones that play the system to their advantage, their own victims cursing the life of their tormentor. In a way, she saves people. 

Just not the way the League wants. 

Well, at least, not the way Batman likes. Diana has been quiet in such an interesting way about Trickmistress' activity, and it's not as if the rest of the League hasn't noticed how Trickmistress will get her way without even scratching them. Even more notable is the Titans' reports of her magicking them into their beds, new pajamas on and blankets tucking them in. 

"I'm not some 'snot nosed brat that's ready for naptime'," Damian had sneered.

In the end, it's Bruce Wayne being bitchy for some ungodly reason he of course won't share, and of course, his answer is to call on the standby League member with experience in mercenaries. 

"Look, Wilson, you did wetwork for years," Bruce reasoned. "If anyone can pin her down, it's you."

(If you weren't so busy with your little more-important-than-the-lives-of-innocent-people game with the Joker, you could too.)

And he did pin her down. Quite a few times. 

(Damn her and that perfect ass.)

It's not as if he became attracted to her on purpose or as if she did it through witchcraft. They became a thing purely because of the fun of the game of cat and mouse, because she made him feel that much more alive during the chase. So what if she was a mercenary that took contracts from supernatural creatures on humans? More often than not, she found a way to leave as few bodies behind as she could, and she looked damn gorgeous doing it, eyeshadow smoky and lips dark crimson, putting the 'goth' in Gotham with zero effort. It doesn't help the attraction that she's so easy on the eye, especially because he only has the one. 

He looks up from his phone, watching the woman in the bakery as she smiles and takes the bag from the cashier. His curiosity is piqued; what has she bought today? He knows her sweet tooth is hard to sate, constantly eating sweet pastries and her favorite strawberry and cream lollipops. It'll probably be revealed all too soon, as soon as they're out of the public eye. 

He goes the opposite direction of her, hands stuffed in his pockets as he thinks about what might be in the bag and to look busy in general just in case the Big Bat was watching; it's a constant worry on his mind that he'll one day enter the Watchtower and be cloven in two by someone for daring to even talk to her outside of taking her into Arkham. The very thought of taking her there makes his throat dry, his heart thudding against his ribcage. 

"Only place for someone like her is Arkham," Bruce had murmured over champagne at a gala a few months ago. "She's just one step away from being Joker."

Not his witch. No one saw the way her cheeks blushed when she grinned or how she would set the Titans down on the ground gently as if they were kittens that needed protecting or how she would tend to Constantine's hangovers with the roll of her eyes and a small smile on her lips. When she killed, she prevented further deaths from happening. 

(Unlike some of the heroes around here.)

He climbs the steps to the loft, unlocking the door after doing his normal security checks for tails. Instead of his place, it reveals a foyer, goth as ever architecturally. As he enters, a door opens and out saunters a man thin as a rail, skin pale and hair tied back in a mess. "You must be her newest pet," The man appraises, eyeing Slade carefully. "Johnny said she had a type."

"John says a lot of things," Slade says bluntly. 

"John doesn't waste breath on lies unless it's beneficial to him," The man corrects. 

As if summoned, John stumbles out of another door, towel hanging around his waist haphazardly. Slade's nose wrinkles at the smell of sex that drips off of John's every pore; the question of how she stands him sleeping with other people in the same household, platonic soulmateship aside and previous romance in consideration, arises to his attention. "Ah, speaking of the devil's one night stand," The other man comments.

"Speak his name thrice and he appears," Slade notes. "Like a horny Beetlejuice."

The man turns his head back to Slade, face gleaming with appreciation. "Oh, yes. You'll do quite fine for her."

"I told you, Nick," John says, lazy smile plastered on his face. "He's a keeper. It's why she hasn't done away with him yet, all things considered."

(All things considered?) 

"So you're Nick," Slade muses. He had been expecting someone that looked...not as close to keeling over as Nick did. 

Nick scowls. "I hate when people say that. Like, what were you expecting?" 

"Someone who doesn't look like he's two seconds away from being on a mortician's slab," Slade snarks. 

John sniggers. "Well, now that you mention it…"

"Yes, Johnny," Nick sighs. "Please regale him with the tale of us fucking in the mortuary."

"Please don't." Slade opens a door, shooting a scowl over his shoulder before closing it again and turning his attention to the other person in the room. 

The nest is recessed into the marble floor, stairs leading down to the mattress like padding and countless blankets and pillows. She's snuggled in tight with a flannel blanket and her Baphomet plush in her arm as she's nose deep in a book. Her bare shoulders peek out from beneath the blanket, dark arcane runes all along her skin, and when he knocks on the bookcase next to him as a warning alarm, she steals his heart away again with the way the lollipop sticks out of her mouth and her eyes seem to shine at him. "Sweetling," She greets. 

"I'm surprised you didn't rob the poor baker blind," Slade comments, sliding his shoes off so he can settle into the nest with her. 

"He gives me good service. The place on 24th? Cunts, the lot of them," Zatanna remarks, setting her book on the floor behind her. "Every time. Every single time."

"Should I report their business?" He says, pulling her into his lap.

"No, no, I'll settle for Johnny tagging their alley wall with hexes," She hums. 

His hands roam over her body, taking in the feeling of the lace that hugs her curves, the way her skin is soft and plush underneath the pads of his fingers, the way she smells of strawberries and cream, the way she's alive and sane (mostly sane, so what if she sacrifices animals to entities beyond good and evil) in his arms, not shoved away in a dark box with hundreds of actual evil people-

"Hey, what's wrong?" He freezes, realizing just how tight he's hugging her, how much his fingers are digging into her skin. With gentleness that he almost never sees outside of her house, she pulls his hands back. "What's on your mind?" She asks softly, the lollipop having since disappeared. 

(God, what would they even do to her in there?)

"Hey."

(What _wouldn't_ they do to her in there. Knowing the rogues of Gotham, half of them would be glad to break her bones just to get a laugh.)

"Sweetling?" 

(Bloodied in a hospital bed, handcuffed and healing only for the cycle to start again for her to end up back there in two weeks at the latest.) 

"Slade!" 

He blinks, focusing on the worried look in her eyes. Her hands hover around his face, there to make sure he's still with her, that she won't have to magic him back into the land of the living. "What is wrong?" 

He squeezes his eye shut. "Batman wants you in Arkham. It's been on my mind lately."

Her weight shifts back, and he opens his eye hesitantly to see her pursing her lips. "He just can't let things go, can he?" She says, melancholic as she looks out the window. 

(Finally, we're getting somewhere) 

"What can't he let go of?" Slade asks. 

She crosses her arms, tracing over the lines in her arm without missing a turn or curve. "Bruce and I used to be close friends. I did a show in Gotham, hired a stage assistant by the name of Ivar Noxias. Couple months later, he was reported dead. Bruce asked me to help him investigate. Got ambushed by Joker. Found out _he_ was Noxias." Her hands twitch, covering her neck as if it was attacked from out of nowhere. "Batman was incapacitated. I was shot in the throat and thrown into an escape tank full of water. Barely made it out alive. And he knew who I was because he knows who Batman really is."

Part of the answer flickers on like a neon sign for a diner. "Makes sense why you're angry at him. And he's angry at you because…?"

"Because I do what he can't. I can make the decision of who lives and who dies. I can kill without being addicted to it. I could stop at any time, I really could. But there's always someone out there who needs help, and someone who is responsible for it." Zatanna looks at him, eyes vulnerable in such a soft way. "I just want to help people. So what if I benefit from it a little? Why can't I just be a little bit happy from doing my work for humanity? Do I have to suffer for it, a martyr for a cause that constantly throws rocks at me?" 

He feels his heart spasm in such an odd motion. Why does he feel the need to hide her away, to keep her safe from the world and its lashings, when she can hit back ten, even a hundred times harder? "You're preaching to a very old choir in this case, Zatanna."

She smiles as if she's holding a crying child. "You got dragged into this. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. Honesty is hard for my side."

"I just…don't want to see you end up there." 

Her entire face lightens up. "Yeah?" 

"Who else would show up in my place completely naked except for the amulet she just stole?" Slade asks. 

"I can ask Johnny. I'm sure he'd be willing to do it."

Slade makes a face. "Not the same. Not my witch."

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he only realizes after what he said. _My_ witch. Possessive of her, even though they haven't declared anything for each other. Their trysts have been wordless about feelings, only speaking to make a quip about how it reminds her of last Saturday when she pinned him to the roof of the museum with magic or him telling her this is reminiscent of him almost handcuffing her in a balcony, or to purr downright filthy things in the other's ear. 

(But how do I feel?) 

He looks into her curious eyes. 

(How do I feel?!) 

She cups his face with one hand. 

(How do I feel!) 

He knows exactly what and how he feels and he's so terrified of what it means and he can't bear to admit it. He can't say it or even think of it being on his tongue because of what it would mean for them. 

Something sharp presses against his neck and he sharply inhales through his nose. "Do you trust me?" She asks softly. 

(Like I trust my lungs to breath around you) 

He simply nods, and she pushes him back, the sharp object still held to his throat as she does. Her eyes are penetrative, like she's deep diving into his soul and pulling everything out of him, every piece of truth that makes up his identity. Her thumb traces over his lip, and he feels whatever she wields against his skin trace up in a pattern to dance along his right cheek, his lack of peripheral vision to the right still hiding what it is. Her other hand moves to undo his zipper and he can't do anything except stare back at her; she has him ensnared, bewitched as she takes him apart like a black widow sizing up her mate. 

(You're allowed to use teeth, but please don't bite my head off) 

Her fingers graze against his hardening cock and his breath hitches from the feeling. Her lips curve into a smile as she pulls back, tapping the object on his lips. "Hold this for me."

He bites down on it with his teeth, trying to keep his breath even as she strips him down to nothing. Instead of focusing on her gentle caresses, he focuses on how her lingerie accentuates the tattoos along her body, all of it blending together to make her look like a bombshell beauty. The entire image of her is a wet dream come alive, and he digs his hands into the cushions as he forces himself not to touch. She pulls the object from his teeth, and he inspects the knife carefully as she pulls back. It's slender, symmetrical with its curving designs and a dark blue stone affixed to the middle of the hilt. Their gazes meet, and she presses the knife against his neck once more. "Just lay back, let me take care of you."

He listens, resting against the pillows as she straddles his lap. The entire position makes him feel like a spoiled prince being tended to, and he lets out a small groan as she grinds his cock along the cleft of her ass. 

She trails the knife down his chest. "Look at you, big strong hero being pinned down by an evil witch. I could cut you open, turn you into my puppet." His cock throbs at the idea. She's right, she's completely right. She could do so many nefarious things with him, make him into something of her own creation and power. The smile on her face is predatory, and she moves back against him again. "You like the idea of me taking care of you? Being my pet? I'll pamper you, give you whatever you want."

He wants to nod, but that would betray his feelings and he can't show her just how much he would do for her, how much he would throw away for her. Her hips shift, now sliding his cock against her petals, and he can feel how the slick dew coats him as she rocks against him. Is she really getting off to this, to having him underneath her however she wants? 

(Of course she is, the little vixen.) 

(But not _that_ Vixen.) 

(Much better than that Vixen.) 

The head of his cock catches on her entrance, just the tip sinking in, and her eyes light up, lips parting to let out small mewls as she sinks down further. The knife continues to move over his skin, and he closes his eye, letting the feeling of the sharp knife almost cut him contrast against the feeling of her velvet soft pussy pulsing around him. If he stares any longer at her perfection, the embodiment of magic, he thinks this session of theirs will end much quicker than intended. 

With her languid thrusts on his lap, she doesn't cut him, instead trailing it all over his body as he feels her gush all over him. The distraction between the two keeps him on a sharp edge, much like the knife pressing at his skin. He barely has enough mental capacity to wonder if she's doing any of this for his benefit or if she's simply using his need for reassurance that she won't disappear between his fingers like the remnant of a spell hitting midnight. It's a worry to him that (I don't mean as much to her as she does to me) she is just using him as an idle plaything until she gets bored of him, but he avoids voicing it because (what if I'm right) in the end, what does it matter? 

She leans in, and he opens his eye to see her pressing the knife against her own neck before trailing it down. The blade catches on the bridge of her lingerie, cutting down it and teasing him with the sides of her breasts. She uses the tip to shove off the straps, fully baring her chest to him as the scraps of fabric drop. The blade skirts along her tattoos, some of them rippling or moving from the action. It moves lower and lower, until he inhales from the feeling of something sharp against the base of his cock. "This is mine now, understand?" She purrs. "I'm not a fan of sharing." 

He nods vehemently, because it's (I've) been hers since their very first time hooking up in the STAR Labs utility closet. 

"Good boy," Zatanna says, running the knife back up to his throat, the point digging into his Adam's apple as she tilts his head up. "You get off to this just as much as I do, don't you?" 

Slade nods, more hesitant this time, and he's rewarded with a particular squeeze of her cunt. She simply smiles her vicious smile, riding him at a faster pace. She's a master at this torture, this manipulation of the body. He'd once heard John accuse her of being too much of a nympho to handle. Too much to handle for _John Constantine_ of all people. 

(She's going to be the death of me.) 

But she looks as if she was made to conquer him, made to take him apart and win their fights. She could undo his existence with a single word (or with a couple more thrusts at a quicker tempo) and he'd be at peace with it. She moves the knife so the edge is just grazing his skin, and he gasps at the feeling. 

(Your knife is the bow and my veins are the strings, play me like a violin.) 

She's practically bouncing on his lap now, her pleasure unmasked by her moans and soft whimpers. Every muscle in his body is straining to hold back, and she leans in with a smile, their lips inches apart and separated by the knife at his throat. They haven't kissed, more than likely due to the complex nature of their dance. 

(If I kiss her, that knife is going to lodge itself into my windpipe) 

He grabs her ass and buries himself into her, getting her close enough for their lips to meet. He feels the knife cut into him, blood trickling down as they kiss. The puddle in his lap grows from how much she's coming, and when he moves to rub her clit with his thumb, she writhed and screeches, "Oh, fucking gods!" The knife is pulled back and she drives it into the flooring next to his head before cupping his face and kissing him like she's thirsty and found her fountain of eternal ecstasy. 

"Zatanna," He groans against her lips, and he knows she knows the sound, the tone of him being unraveled by her. 

"Please," She whispers against his lips. 

Another circle of his thumb and she quivers, spine locking up as she clamps down on him, sparking his own release. Their noises of pleasure get lost in their kissing, in the way they collapse together to soak in the afterglow together. Her thumb presses along his fresh wound, and she mumbles out, _"Laeh."_

(Worth every drop of blood and more.)

"Thanks," Slade says. 

"Anytime," Zatanna hums, leaning forward to pull the knife out from where she put it. With a small jerk, she cuts her thumb, not reacting to his exclamation at the action. Smearing it along the blade, she flips it and offers it to him handlefirst as she sucks at the cut. "Here. Any time you're in doubt of where I'm at, just take this out and think of me."

He takes it, looking over the now clean blade, blood having soaked into the metal already. "So this will show me where you're at?" 

"Yes, along with giving you a brief idea of where I'm at. Think magical GPS pinging," She answers. 

Slade hums, turning it over in his hand. "And you trust me not to give this to the League because…?"

She places a hand on his chest, looking at him solemnly. "Because I trust you. I trust who you are."

He covers her hand, looking just as serious. "Then you can trust that no matter where you are, I will come for you."

(Understand that this is the closest I can get to saying-) 

"I love you." 

She says quietly, as if she's placing it on the table close enough that she can snatch it back if there's a chance of getting hurt. He tries to avoid looking at her, because romantic emotions are just something he was never good at and he wishes he could say it and have her understand that he would do anything for her-

(Oh God, I would do anything for her) 

"You don't have to say it back," She murmurs. "I just need you to know that this is real. This is me being honest."

Instead of a reply, he reaches for her hand, squeezing it and pressing it to his lips. He wishes he could explain everything that has happened, why three words and a truth have become synonymous with disaster, but he has a feeling she already knows the basics.

"Wanna stay the night?" Zatanna asks softly. 

Slade looks back up to her before pulling her into his side and pulling the blanket over them. "I'd like that a lot."

It's a start. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song Bloodstream by Stateless


End file.
